


Low profile

by a_sparrows_fall



Category: Jupiter Ascending (2015), Marvel (Comics), Marvel 616, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Genetically Engineered Beings, Kinda, M/M, Space Opera, Werewolf Steve Rogers, love song to Chicago, road trip fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-05
Updated: 2016-07-05
Packaged: 2018-07-21 15:03:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7392040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_sparrows_fall/pseuds/a_sparrows_fall
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The wolf-hybrid-soldier-person driving the older model maroon Impala whisking both himself and Tony away from Chicago to god-knows-where looks pretty solid for someone who’s recently been injured in battle.</p><p>Tony’s not sure what all this is, but he’s willing to go for along the ride. Especially with this particular driver.</p><hr/><p>Currently a one-shot where I try to flesh out the world of Jupiter Ascending by mashing it up with 616. Steve is the Lycantant splice, Tony has mysterious parentage and is somehow involved with the Stark family space dynasty... It goes from there.</p><p>I don't think you particularly need to have seen Jupiter Ascending to get what happens immediately in the fic, but all the mixed up character-crosses are going to make a lot more sense if you know what happens in the movie.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Low profile

“So have you, like, thought about shaving?"

The wolf-hybrid-soldier-person driving the older model maroon Impala whisking both himself and Tony away from Chicago to god-knows-where looks pretty solid for someone who’s recently been injured in battle. Probably that genetic modification he mentioned, giving him some extra pep.

The subject of which is weird in and of itself; he must only have point-zero-zero-zero-zero-one percent wolf DNA, because, pointy ears notwithstanding, the dude is still largely human and _fiercely_ hot. No real fur to speak of.

Unless you count the really unfortunate half-goatee thing Tony is currently giving unsolicited advice about.

“Shaving, or letting it grow. You’re doing this in-between thing. I think you’ll be happier if you figure this out, beard or no beard, because—and I don’t want to be mean—but you’ve got some other half-and-half identity issues rockin’ here, and some stability might suit you."

“You’re taking this remarkably well,” the soldier, Stepp, comments, ignoring Tony’s line of questioning about facial hair.

And that’s a fair point. Tony really _should_ be more freaked out after being nearly murdered less than two hours ago while wearing a paper gown in a probably illegal clinic, and then being abducted-slash-saved by Stepp, this… what’d he say the term was? Splice?

But he’s not.

Tony’s always wanted more, better, beyond. Knew he was destined for something other than low paying fix-it jobs. That’s why he agreed to work with his cousin Morgan on selling his clean pee and blood, so other people — almost certainly the Maggia — could pass their drug tests illegally. So he could use the money to buy parts to work on his robot and AI designs. So he could work on the future— _his_ future. His ticket out of this life.

Which is what Tony was doing when those _things_ tried to take him out: getting a physical so he could sell his genetic material, like some two-legged weird farm animal.

At first, the appointment seemed mostly on the up and up; the clinic was in a rougher part of the town on the far west side at an unlisted address, but staffers at the front desk looked normal enough.

But just after getting changed and sitting down on that awful paper stuff on the exam table, doctors in full scrubs burst in the room in an aggressively un-doctor-like fashion, scowling and exclaiming, “he’s the one."

He punched one of them back away from him, and took a swing at another, because Tony was not about to be found dead with his ass literally hanging out, but they’d overtaken him and begun to inject something in the back of his neck.

 _Then_ this hunky black-clad beast-god in no-shit _actual_ rocket boots flew in, kicked the crap out the rest of them, and scooped up Tony in his arms like he weighed nothing at all.

“Who are you?” Tony heard his own voice ask dreamily, the drugs starting to hit him.

“I’m Stepp Aeon. We’re getting out of here."

Tony wasn’t exactly the dude in distress type on the regular, but he was so stunned by the whole experience, the _I’m Luke Skywalker and I’m here to rescue you_ of it all, not to mention the fact that he was falling under heavy sedation. It seemed like the situation called for lolling in the muscular man’s arms, so he lolled with the best of them, and then promptly passed the rest of the way out.

Fast-forward to waking up fully dressed (okay: that was awkward, and a little creepy, but probably also necessary and still kinda hot) on a really high, unoccupied floor of the frickin’ Sears Tower (no, not the Willis tower, that was a stupid name and no Chicagoan accepted it, dammit.)

After exchanging pleasantries, Stepp was starting to fly them up on the aforementioned boots to Stepp's spaceship (space! exclamation point! ship!), when they were intercepted by little green guys with noticeably gross chins in ships of their own.

Segue to mid-air dogfight over the river, nearly destroying the Merch Mart, yadda-yadda, lucky to escape alive, and _possibly_ more lolling on Tony’s part.

Now, here they are, post-battle, fleeing the city for an as-yet unknown destination in this lovely family-sized sedan.

So, yeah, aliens trying to kill him because he’s somehow a lynch pin in their intergalactic civil war? Freaky, sure.

But Tony’s okay for the most part, Stepp is wounded but hanging in there, and the rest of the collateral damage seems small enough: the buildings appear to be _healing_ , somehow. He’s been casting glances in the rearview mirror since they started making their escape, and the Hancock building looks like nothing happened at all.

Honestly? It’s all a good sign that Tony might _not_ just be lost in delusions of his own grandeur. It seems like he _is_ a part of something bigger. Far-reaches-of-the-universe-type-big.

He’s not sure what all this is, but he’s willing to go for along the ride.

Especially with this particular driver.

“Hey, I’m not the one who was nearly made into shish-ka-bob. In fact—"

Tony rifles through the glove compartment and only manages to find some paper take out napkins, and someone’s gaudy American flag handkerchief: thankfully clean, and better than nothing.

He presses the napkins-hankie-combo into the exposed laceration on Stepp’s side, and the wolf-hybrid makes a quiet grunt, mouth twisting, momentarily flashing his enlarged pointed canines. Tony pauses briefly, to confirm he’s not doing more harm than good, but then continues applying pressure. Stepp makes no sound and stares straight ahead.

Tony keeps his eyes fixed on the kitschy scrap of cloth, a stark contrast against the intricately sewn black fabric and leather of his savior-slash-kidnapper’s uniform vest.

“—can’t have you dying on me now, after all this. In _this_ car."

“We needed to keep a low profile to get out of the city,” Stepp grinds out. He’s still not looking at Tony, but Tony can feel him relax against his hand slightly, his breathing deeper, calmer.

“Noticed you didn’t say 'out of the galaxy', so where are you taking me? I’m guessing this person that hired you—"

“—Tiberius—"

“Right, sure, Tiberius — doesn’t live in Hammond. Wolf Lake is gross."

The movement is so small that it would have nearly been imperceptible if it wasn’t so deeply inhuman, but Tony sees Stepp’s ears flick back just a fraction the moment the word ‘wolf’ leaves his mouth.

“That’s not a dig,” Tony backpedals, “It’s just not a very nice lake. I think the Maggia dumps bodies there."

“Maggia?"

“They’re like a crime family. They don’t like people who get in their way. My stupid cousin Morgan— you know what? Never mind. Not important."

Tony thinks of the brief conversation he and Stepp were beginning to have as they were trying to leave the planet earlier, before they were attacked.

 _House Stark is one of the most powerful dynasties in the universe_ , Stepp had said, and a shiver ran up Tony’s spine, a jolt of recognition.

_Stark._

Like a spike of light, like a spark from beyond the stars.

Also like home, somehow. With all the mixed emotions that come embedded in that word.

_Stark._

“That’s not what this... royal family you mentioned is, right?” Tony asks. "The ones you work for? The Starks?"

“Tiberius, Ezekiel, and Gialetta?” Stepp pauses in thought. "No, not exactly. What they do isn’t illegal, anyway."

Tony chuckles sardonically. “That’s not a stunning vote of confidence. Why’d you take this job?"

Stepp’s eyes drift downward fleetingly, hurt reflected in them. “It’s a long story.” 

“I’d say 'I have the time,' but only you know where we’re going and how long it takes to get there, so… up to you.” Tony folds his free arm behind his head, settles in as best he can at the odd angle, still applying pressure to Stepp’s wound. He lets the silence stretch out.

Stepp worries his oversized canines with his tongue behind closed lips, not for the first time. A nervous tic. _He’s had those chompers his whole life_ , Tony thinks, _and they still make him uncomfortable? Poor guy._

“I used to be a part of the military,” Stepp finally explains, “A branch called the Legion. It’s what I was bred for— _enhanced_ for, even.” He shakes his head briefly, as if he let something slip he didn’t mean to. “That… didn’t work out for me. But I thought this job could improve my situation. Well. Not just mine."

“And now you think it won’t? Improve your situation?"

“It’s not that. It’s… complicated. Anyway, the point is, as you noticed, I’m not taking you to Tiberius."

The sun is setting; a few other drivers have pre-emptively turned on their low beams in the fading day. The light flashes in Stepp’s eyes briefly, and Tony thinks they look more yellow than before, more lupine.

"Where are you taking me?"

“Some old associates of mine. They’ll know what to do. I hope. Bit risky, though,” Stepp concedes.

“For me?” Tony asks, thinking he already knows the answer to that.

“No,” Stepp confirms, “For me."

That seems... generous for someone Tony barely knows; members of Tony’s own family wanted him to sell parts of himself for money. He’s not really sure what to do with that, so he says nothing.

Liquid warmth isn’t spreading under Tony’s hand anymore, and when he moves it away fractionally, the patriotic makeshift bandage sticks to Stepp’s torso. Some kind of healing process seems to have kicked in, thank god.

Both of them squirm uncomfortably in the quiet, and turning on the radio only seems like it’d make things more awkward — does Stepp even like ‘earth music’? — so Tony starts the conversation up again.

“Been to lots of planets?” asks Tony, genuinely, but his glib nature makes it sound a little like a pickup line. Which… is also okay. It can be both.

“Quite a few. For jobs,” Stepp answers, sounding cagey. “I usually don’t get to stay long."

“Do anything fun this time?"

“ _Fun?_ ” Stepp asks, and for a second, Tony is concerned he doesn’t know what the word means, like it was bred out of him by the splicers who made him or something. After some consideration, he admits, “Not really." 

A car hums by in the opposite direction, and then they are alone on the road again. Tony sighs and stares at the flat, increasingly rural Indiana landscape, the quiet deafening. He reconsiders his previous thought, starts to reach for the radio dial, hopes Stepp doesn’t like country music, because this could get kinda ugly if he does—

“—I had a hot dog,” Stepp says, suddenly, and Tony pulls his hand back, looks at him.

“I had never had one before,” he continues. “It was… _good_. Different, but good,” he decides.

Tony’s face shifts as he regards Stepp again, because this is _important_ : “What kind? Coney dog? New York? Chicago style?"

“…Earth-style?” Stepp tries, sheepishly, the corner of his mouth twisting slightly, carefully, his guard not still fully down.

Tony chuckles. “Fair enough. Maybe I can show you the different kinds, when all this is over,” he suggests.

Stepp pauses, uncertain, and Tony wonders if he fumbled; in truth, he doesn’t know what _when all this is over_ actually means. He doesn’t know if he’ll ever see Stepp again, if they’ll even be in the same solar-system.

But Stepp nods, like he’s willing to go along with his conceit for the moment.

“All right. That sounds like it would be… _fun_."

Tony’s gonna count that as a win.

“Great,” he says, feeling more slightly more comfortable, less like a burden. Time to bring up the thing he’s been wanting to mention since Stepp rushed into his life a few hours ago, the subject he’s really gonna be able to impress with.

“Your tech is pretty neat,” Tony offers coolly. “Could use some improvements, though."

 _That_ actually gets a small grin out of Stepp. As if a _Terrsies_ (or whatever word he used for ‘people from underdeveloped planets’) could understand his futuristic space-tech, that suppressed smirk says. _Well, Three Wolf Moon, you are in for a surprise_.

“You said your jump-boots work by reversing gravity in a localized field, right? You can only push the differential equation so far. You should supplement with an actual propulsion mechanism for additional lift—"

“—I’m not an expert on these things,” Stepp cuts in, “But wouldn’t that take too much power?"

“Just need the right power source; your ship’s energy generator had a design similar to one I’ve been working on—"

“That could never be miniaturized,” Stepp says, unbelievingly. He’s starting to smile now, though, genuinely, unselfconscious of how his teeth might appear. His eyes dart away from the road as much as he can while still steering safely, trying to gauge how serious Tony is.

“Wanna bet?” Tony grins, brimming with confidence. “C’mon, gimme a decent workshop and eight hours with your kicks and a ship’s engine system, I could _do_ this. I… I wanted to thank you. I owe you, for saving me. Throw a couple stabilizers in, too, for your hands, back, calves… You wouldn’t have to just glide, you could _fly_."

Stepp’s burgeoning smile dies on his face in half a heartbeat, his throat tightening visibly in pain. “I don’t want to _fly_ ,” he says in a choked voice. “Not with the boots, anyway."

Tony has no idea why, no clue what he said that caused such a reaction, but the effect of his charming mechanical nerdery on Stepp seems to have been broken. The soldier stares at the road as before, jaw locked, neck stiff, no longer sneaking glances at Tony.

“ _Fuck_ , good job, Stane,” Tony chides himself under his breath.

“Sorry?” Stepp says quietly.

“Nothing,” Tony says, face in one of his hands. “Just congratulating myself on my title: Tony Stane, engineering savant and destroyer of smooth moments."

“Stane?” Stepp asks, sounding confused.

“Yeah, I guess we weren’t properly introduced, what with the almost being killed several times over—"

“—Not ‘Jarvis’?"

Tony’s head snaps up at that. "What, wait?"

“Your papers, the records I tracked down, the DNA samples... Your mother was a Hungarian immigrant, Maria Troyvana—"

“Right—"

“And your father was—"

“Obadiah Stane—"

“No,” Stepp corrects, “A man named Edwin Jarvis. Uh, ‘English’? I think it said?"

Tony’s mouth hangs open slightly.

“You didn’t know? I’m sorry, I thought you knew,” Stepp consoles him. “But I’m sure I’m right; I have a perfect memory, I know what the documents said."

“Sure,” Tony replies absently, voice toneless.

Strangely, this affects Tony’s grip on reality far more keenly than being the target of an alien hit.

Obi is… not his dad?

Something in him says that’s _right_. He barely even _questions_ it. It seems much more likely, somehow, that his entire concept of his family history is wrong, than that Stepp has the wrong person, or (somehow, this seems completely unthinkable) that Stepp is lying to him.

 _This_ is why he never felt truly part of his father’s family, his gut tells him. _This_ is why they never got along, why Obi never understood his ambitions, or actively tried to stifle them.

 _Tony Jarvis_ , he tries out in his head. _Jarvis_ , he thinks it with an English accent, imagines himself swirling a martini, _Tony Jarvis._

It still doesn’t sound right to him. It’s got an elegance his old name didn’t have— oops-I-spilled-a-blob-of-mustard-on-my-shirt-I-hope-it-doesn’t- _Stane_ —but it’s still not him, doesn’t describe who he is.

Could this day get any weirder?

“Look,” Stepp breaks into Tony’s thoughts, and Tony has a vague notion that the car is slowing; they’ve pulled off the highway onto an exit ramp. “I know this must be a lot to take in, and I’m sorry about what I said… When you mentioned the boots—"

Tony is completely distracted, however, by the appearance of a… a _swarm_ around their car.

“What the hell—?” he pulls back, thinking the insects are inside the vehicle at first.

“Oh, welcoming committee,” Stepp huffs, seemingly not as surprised as Tony by this development. Bad sign.

It looks like… bees? Wasps? Who the hell can tell the difference? Whatever they are, there are at least a hundred, circling all around the car.

As they wind up a local road that eventually turns into nothing more than dirt, Tony sees a semi-dilapidated house… and in the field near by, even _more_ bees. Maybe thousands of them. Like they live here, though there’s only one tree in the area, and no visible nest in it that he can make out. _Great_.

“Tell me we’re just here to pick up some locally grown honey, _honey_ ,” Tony tries.

Stepp shakes his head as he turns the engine off, and takes a steadying breath.

“Nope. We’re here." 

**Author's Note:**

> I finally saw Jupiter Ascending and yeah, it was bad, but in a visually-stunning, trashy-awesome kinda way, like something that could be super fun with a little tweaking. The world kinda stuck with me, and I was missing Chicago a bit, so... this. Getting my writing brain going again after a hiatus.
> 
> Right now this is a one-shot, but I have lots -- like, TOO many -- ideas about JA/616 fusion head-canon, and I will take ANY opportunity to write a wolf-hybrid Steve, so leaving it here as something I can come back to between projects.


End file.
